Rob Abrazado (flatvurm) wrote,
Rob Abrazado
flatvurm

What a town. What a world. What a life.

So there's this online publication serving the Philly area called Metropolis, and they run a feature called VoxPop, which is basically just, like, a city-wide collective blog. Of the last five columns posted, one was basically about joblessness and despair, and two were separate tales of people having their houses broken into and stuff stolen. On the one hand, I know that my situation is far from unique. On other hand, confronting that fact fills me with a sadness I can't even really describe. And somehow, for reasons escaping my understanding, this feeling is intimately associated in my mind with wanting to not be a fuckup any more, and finding it very hard to make that happen.

I dunno, man. Good days, bad days, you know? What can you do. It's like...I know, intellectually, that my particular lot in life, while less than ideal, is still much better than a lot of people get. But some days...some days all you can see is the problems and the...the bullshit. There's bullshit everywhere I turn. Bullshit and hardship and...and whatever-the-fuck-else is wrong with the world. And people. And me. Sometimes I just want nothing more than to have my finger on the button to start World War III, you know? And I feel like I can't even vent about it, because it's all just so much pointless whining, and I do hates me some pointless whining. I don't even know why I'm writing this entry, except that it feels like there's a scorpion in my brain and if I don't open up and let it out, I'm just going to have to dig the shit out with a screwdriver.

So here's what I feel. I feel like every time I step outside my house, I'm met with a world full of people just fucking suffering. I see violence and anger, sadness and hopelessness, kids out of control, grownups losing control...I see people with nowhere to go and nothing to do, and I see people with too much to do. Just a day or two ago, I overheard a middle-aged guy talking to his friend, showing off his scars and talking about how he just finished up his chemo, and now he's got to get back to work hauling god-knows-what around a hundred pounds at a time until...until, what, they finally put you in the ground? I see an endless treadmill of poverty that spans generations. I see streets covered in filth and apathy. I walk roads lined by abandoned buildings, tumbling walls, and broken windows, and I was recently disheartened, though in retrospect not surprised, that I couldn't immediately discern whether the disheveled heap I saw down the block was another pile of trash or a person in need of help. And whichever it was...how long before it's me?

Not that I had any to give. Because I see all these things, and then I see myself. I see myself as part of the problem and not part of the solution. I feel frightened in a world of anger and lost in a world of illusion. I feel like I could be doing something, I should be doing something, but I don't know what to do or where to turn. I feel like I'm in danger, and I feel like the next step I take, any step, is going to bring me closer to some trouble that I can't escape. I don't feel safe in my own home. I don't feel safe anywhere. And moreover I feel like everyone feels it...like everyone around me can taste the fear in the air, that if whatever's out there doesn't get us quick enough, then maybe our heads will just explode of their own accord. And then I start to look forward to that end, either one, because it will mean a bit of peace. To sleep the sleep of the dead, everybody. I feel like that should never be the thing you look forward to.

Anyway. That's just tonight. I'm sure it will be better in the morning.
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